The Ghost of Christmas Past and Christmas Presents
by SinsofMidnight
Summary: ONESHOT CHRISTMAS WINCEST  Sam and Dean spend a real Christmas alone at Bobby's, complete with a Ghost of Christmas Past and Christmas presents. Rated for lemony goodness.


**Yes, I know it's late, but suck it up. This Christmas fic is soooo fuckin' worth it! **

* * *

><p><strong>The Ghost of Christmas Past and Christmas Presents<strong>

_**Teaser:**__ " 'I'm not finding any activity, Dean. No demonic omens, no vampire attacks, no werewolves or anything. It's like they're all on Christmas vacation.'  
>I raised an eyebrow. 'Monsters don't celebrate Christmas, Sam.'<br>'I know, but I'm not finding _anything_.' His fingers quickly danced across the keyboard. 'I've checked and double-checked. There's nothing, not even a measly thunder-storm.' "_

_**Inspiration:** This year, I'm going to attempt to write Wincest. The reason? I was inspired by the flashbacks in "A Very Supernatural Christmas" (S03E08). This is a pairing I pretty much swore to never write, because they're brothers, and it's all wonky in my head that way, but I'm gonna give it a shot._

_This is my Christmas fic for 2011. According to that sick little part in my head, that means it's time for some yaoi fun!_

_**Rating: **M_

_**Warnings:  
><strong>-Yaoi  
>-Incest<br>-Sex play –probably no penetration, but pretty much everything else  
>-Naughtyfilthy/sex-related language  
>-Serious denial (on my part, lol)<br>-A real Christmas!  
>-Chick-flick moments<em>

_**Main Pairing: **Sam/Dean_

_**Setting: **Bobby's House! During the seventh season before the holiday break._

_**POV:** Dean at the beginning pretty constantly… when it gets to Christmas day, there's Sam interspersed in between ^^_

_**Additional ANs:** Considering the sheer amount of times I've watched Dean and same die (I've only watched seasons 1-3 now, along with about a little over half of season 4 and scattered bits and pieces of 5, 6, and 7) or lose someone they loved, I think it's highly likely that I'll write a happy ending because I want them to be happy.  
>I refuse to believe that my dear, dear Cas and my wonderful Bobby are dead, so despite setting this after Bobby "dies" in season seven, the boys think of Cas as missing and Bobby is still in a coma. I can't have a mournful merry Christmas, now can I?<br>I'm projecting on the Christmas presents. No, Sam never mentions any of the lit he receives in this in the series, as far as I know, but it amused me to give him my personal tastes on a few things. And the home-made mix discs for Dean were a notion that came about because I'm weird about music (explaining that proclivity would take another paragraph). The movies… well, Dean would have to watch them on the laptop, and Sam is particular about not wanting his laptop …sticky XD. And the journal was a cute little touch, right?_

* * *

><p><em>Dean:<em>

I wanted so badly to protect him, from our life, from the monsters, from _everything_. That's why it broke my heart that Christmas, when he stole Dad's journal and read it, cover to cover.

Then he asked the worst question ever in the history of children asking terrible questions. "Dean," he asked, his green eyes pleading for truth, "are monsters real?"

My heart in my throat, I _knew_ I had to tell him the truth. After all, I was his older brother and he trusted me to tell him the truth, even if it was hard. He already trusted me to be there for him, no matter what, to comfort him the best way I knew how, and to tell him the truth, despite the times I'd lied to him. So I confirmed what he suspected from Dad's journal, wondering how harsh my punishment would be when our father found out I could no longer leave Sammy in the dark.

Either way, it was a horrible tragedy on one hand and a rushing river of relief on the other. It was tragic because Sammy was so sweet and innocent and this was going to take both from him. It was a relief because I could finally stop lying to the one person who always trusted me to tell them the truth.

I looked out the window and wondered which it really was. The gray sky had been threatening snow for the last week, but as I watched, pure white snowflakes drifted quietly to the ground.

"Dean?" he asked.

My head jerked around to look at him. "Yeah, Sammy?"

"Why did he tell me the monsters under my bed weren't real?"

"That's because he'd already checked there."

Actually, that was a lie. Dad had checked once. I checked it every night while he brushed his teeth before bed because I needed to _know_ he would be safe while he slept. He was my little brother, but he was so much _more_ to me, and there was no way around that fact.

* * *

><p><em>Dean:<em>

"_Dean_!" Sammy exclaimed, demanding my attention return from my memories.

"Yeah, Sammy?" I asked, turning to face him.

He was sprawled out on the bed, comfortable and loose. At some point, he'd broken the unspoken almost-rule and removed his jeans and over shirt. He lay on his stomach on the coverlet, his feet by the headboard and his upper chest and elbow on a pillow as he looked up from his laptop to look at me. "Were you even paying attention to a word I said?"

"Nah, sorry. Just… thinkin'," I returned.

"I'm not finding any activity, Dean. No demonic omens, no vampire attacks, no werewolves or anything. It's like they're all on Christmas vacation."

I raised an eyebrow. "Monsters don't celebrate Christmas, Sam."

"I know, but I'm not finding _anything_." His fingers quickly danced across the keyboard. "I've checked and double-checked. There's nothing, not even a measly thunder-storm."

I sighed. There went my opportunity to release all of my pent-up emotions. I mean, sure, the emotions I was holding back weren't exactly rage, but passion could come out in any form, right?

For all intents and purposes, I knew I acted like a borderline sociopath with my _desire_ to kill those things, but it was better than letting out other desires that I knew, despite not being raised as a church-going choir-boy, were completely and wholly immoral. Other desires my father would have killed me if he ever knew I had. Other desires that in no way _protected_ my little brother, my greatest weakness.

"Looks like we have Christmas off," Sammy said, interrupting my thoughts once more. "Actually, it's looking more like the entire week up to Christmas."

"I guess."

"Do you… nah, it's stupid…" He shook his head. "I can't even believe I thought that."

"What?" I asked, looking at my brother funny.

"Do you wanna have another real Christmas, Dean?" he asked softly.

Our last 'real Christmas' had be the one before I had been drug down to Hell. He'd decorated our hotel room and bought me a few presents, just to give me the Christmas I'd asked for. It had been incredibly sweet of him to do, and I did treasure the memory.

My mouth opened without checking with my brain first. "Sure, Sammy. Let's have ourselves another real Christmas."

* * *

><p><em>Dean:<em>

I'm told that normal people head home for the holidays. Since our childhood home wasn't really ours anymore and we'd spent the rest of our childhood bouncing from motel room to motel room, we drove to Bobby's house. Besides being one of the closest things to a home we'd ever had, it was also one of the safest places on the planet.

Bobby was still in a coma, so we had free run of the place. Sammy, at some point, had become unable to stand the clutter in the study, so he put away the volumes of information and made a few brief notes on where he'd placed them to leave for Bobby. It also appeared that once he was in a somewhat domestic mood, it was unstoppable until his task was completed. He'd washed the windows, swept the floors, shampooed the carpet and scrubbed the walls. The study was almost eerily clean and somewhat reminiscent of our brief tour when we'd been caught in Bobby's dream. Every now and then, I had to look to make sure his dead wife wasn't coming to kill us.

Sam didn't let me stop him from scrubbing down the rest of house, either. He cleaned the kitchen in the same way, as well as each room upstairs, the basement, and even the panic room. He was on a single-minded quest for clean that probably had more to do with wanting to do something for Bobby than our stay. He'd selected two of the rooms upstairs for each of us to use while we were here, then had started checking all of the closets, the attic, the basement, and any other storage area he could think of, mumbling something about Bobby being unable to part with his wife's things.

While I dozed on the couch, where I had fallen asleep perusing some volume of lore or another, Sammy used the hidden supply of ornaments and decorations and decked the house out for Christmas. I awoke to the twinkle of Christmas lights and the smell of fresh pine. Sammy had truly outdone himself: he cut down and decorated a large pine, taking care to make it tasteful and homey all at once. He'd added little festive touches all over the house, including garland on the railing for the staircase, a colorful collection of ornaments to act as a centerpiece on the large dining room table, as well as hanging lights above the cabinets in the kitchen.

All in all, it looked like the Christmas fairy had stopped by to make us ready for the season.

I glanced around the study and wondered upstairs, but I didn't find Sammy. So I went down to the basement, only to find the door to the panic room open and Sam recoating the walls with salt.

"Sammy?" I asked.

He rose to his feet and smiled. "There was a reason the walls were coated in salt. They were just also coated in dust."

I couldn't help but smile back at him.

* * *

><p><em>Dean:<em>

As Christmas grew closer, Sammy wanted to go into town.

"I want to give you something better than something from a hotel gift shop this year," he told me, smiling.

And, being the big brother I am, I gave in, and we drove into town to shop for Christmas presents.

As it turned out, Sammy could be a regular whirlwind of Christmas cheer when he wanted to be. It surprised me, because last time, I'd had to twist his arm to get him to give in. But not this time.

This time, Sammy wanted to cook Christmas dinner, wrap presents, and deck the halls. It was like the Grinch who'd been my brother the past few Christmases had melted into the happy kid he used to be, clear down to his enthusiasm for all things Christmas.

Luckily, we'd been blessed with an abundance of funds this year, and I never had to tell the poor boy no.

And during one of our trips to town, I found the perfect gift for my little brother. It had been a bit expensive, but there was nothing I wouldn't do for my little brother, so I bought it anyway.

* * *

><p><em>Dean:<em>

On Christmas Eve, Sammy kept checking the signs and the news. His fear of having his 'perfect' holiday ruined was almost palpable. But nothing showed up, so he gradually relaxed some.

He smiled and suggested that we watch those corny Christmas movies like we used to when we were kids. So we cuddled up on the couch and watched "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" and "Frosty the Snowman" until I drifted off to sleep, my head falling into his lap.

I felt his fingers in my hair even as I slept. The gentle petting was soothing and comforting and it stirred up things inside me that if defiantly shouldn't have, but I just soaked in the comfort of my brother's touch.

I think I never slept as well as I did that night.

* * *

><p><em>Dean:<em>

Christmas morning had been a long-time coming.

I woke up, surprise of all surprises, in my brother's lap at 5 am.

Despite the warm comfort of this almost-embrace and the fire that was still going nicely in the fireplace, I felt a chill. Somehow, I slipped away without waking him, only to find the smiling, ghostly visage of Karen Singer.

"Who did this?" the ghost asked me with tears of joy on her face.

"Sammy did," I returned softly, offering her a smile. The ghost was absolutely harmless anywhere outside of Bobby's head; hell, she'd been absolutely harmless as a zombie! I didn't see the trouble in appeasing her. "He wanted to have real Christmas for a change."

She continued to smile. "We used to love Christmas. Bobby won't celebrate it right without me."

"It's the memories," I told her. "He can't do it: he remembers the Christmases he got to have with you, and he still loves you."

The tears seemed to trickle faster. "Sammy loves you, too, Dean. Remember that."

I cocked my head at her. "Sure he does. He's my brother."

A different kind of smile pulled at her lips: a knowing smile, almost taunting. "Oh, you'll find out, dear."

"Have a merry Christmas, Mrs. Singer," I told her softly.

She smiled back at me. "You boys be good," she warned before disappearing.

"We always are," I returned, still looking at the spot where she had stood mere moments before.

Still tired, I slipped back onto the couch with Sammy, carefully finding the same, comfortable position. After all, I didn't want to explain it in the morning, so it was better to just resume the same pose. It had _nothing_ to do with the fact I was pretty damn close to intimately touching my brother. Nothing at all.

* * *

><p><em>Dean:<em>

Sammy woke me gently, shaking my shoulder and coaxing me with his words. Lazily, I opened my eyes and found his.

"Merry Christmas, sleepyhead," he greeted, smiling gently at me. "You want to open your presents?"

I sat up slowly, my back aching slightly from being in that position too long. _But no regrets,_ I thought. Yawning, I asked, "What time is it, anyway?"

"Nine o'clock," he returned. "Time to wake up."

We didn't bother with breakfast first: after all, there were only a small number of presents beneath our tree.

Sammy handed me three separate packages, and I handed him one. That left two presents beneath our tree: one for Bobby, and one for Castiel. Sammy had wrapped them both and put both names on them. It seemed that both of us thought our own stubborn insistence would bring Bobby out of his coma and Cas out of hiding.

"Go ahead. Open yours first," he commanded.

I smiled and picked up the smallest one first. I tore open the colorful paper at a slower rate than Sammy expected. Then again, maybe he _wanted_ it that way, and that was why he used so much tape! I let the paper fall to the floor as I looked at the present: five CDs he must have burned off his computer, because they were labeled in his sloppy penmanship, "The Best of the Mullet Rock" volumes 1-5, and each song was written out in order.

I cocked my head at him and smiled. "I thought you'd hate this music after all these years, Sammy."

"I hate hearing them all in the same order over and over again, but there's nothing wrong with the songs." He gave me a cute little smile, and I counted that as my fourth present this year. "Go on, Dean. Open the others."

I took the largest package next, tearing into the paper as fast as the abundance of tape would allow and found myself holding six DVDs, each one of my favorite (non-porn) films.

Sammy smiled at me again as I opened the next package. I was surprised to find myself holding a chocolate-brown leather journal, empty but for the inscription that read: _You've always treated Dad's journal like a treasure. I thought it was time you have one of your own to fill the way that Dad did, since you've been doing this longer than Dad now. Love, Sammy._

It was far too late for me to tell him not to make this a chick-flick moment. If I'd wanted to say that, I should have stopped him before he began. But that didn't mean I had to tell him I was working hard to keep back the tears and to swallow a lump the size of Kansas that was suddenly in my throat. I tried clearing my throat, hoping to get rid of it that way. "Thanks, Sammy."

Oh, the smile on his face could have lit New York City for a week! "Merry Christmas, Dean."

"Open your present," I commanded gruffly, trying not to let him see that smile got to me.

He nodded and did as told, his large hands avoiding tearing the red-and-white paper. When he saw what he had uncovered, his grin about split his face. "_A Midsummer's Night Dream_?_ Man vs. Superman_?_ Dracula_?_ Alice in Wonderland _and _Through the Looking Glass_?_ The Great Gatsby_?_ Catcher in the Rye_? I thought you didn't pay attention when I talked about literature!"

Had I been given to such a girlish habit, I would have blushed. "Yeah, in the same way you hate my music."

He smiled and set the leather-bound volumes on the coffee table before turning to me and hugging me. "Thanks, Dean. I love them."

And that is exactly why I hadn't minded the price tag on these books: I knew how much they would please him, and I wanted to see that smile.

The true smile on his face did not disappoint.

* * *

><p><em>Dean:<em>

Sammy had also decided his main task for the day was feeding me.

By "feeding me", I really mean giving me so much food in one setting that I wasn't sure I could even _approach_ the next meal in a few hours. He made eggs and bacon and sausage and pancakes and French toast and any other breakfast food he could ever remember me enjoying. It was nothing short of a feast and the food was absolutely delicious, and I told him both, smiling brightly.

He smiled back, that gentle, caring smile of his, and took a bite of his pancakes, the warm syrup dripping down his lip and onto his chin. I watched, captivated, as his tongue snuck past his lips to try to catch it.

He caught most of it: only a tiny dribble clung on just beyond the reach of his tongue. So I leaned across the table and swiped up the wayward drop with my thumb, then I licked the sticky substance off my thumb.

I swear his eyes widened for an instant before he looked back to his food.

The rest of the meal was silent and strained.

It took all of the concentration I had not to squirm uncomfortably with my… "problem", but that would only draw his attention to my situation, anyway, and that was the last thing I wanted.

* * *

><p><em>Dean:<em>

If I hadn't been sure Sammy was mad at me, the fact that he left me alone with the dishes would have definitely knocked it into my thick skull.

I had distinct and horrid memories of doing the dishes, all of which involved at least two broken dishes. Being that we were at Bobby's and he would gank _us_ if we broke his wife's china, Sammy's anger was not only palpable, but dangerous. After all, mine wasn't the only ass that would be grass if one of those plates shattered.

That all said, I had no _idea_ as to _why_ Sammy was this angry, and that was scarier than Hell, and I wasn't exaggerating.

Well, not much, anyway.

So I did the only thing I could do in my position: I washed the damn china as slowly and carefully as I could, did my damndest to not break anything, and let my little brother stew in his own juices until he was ready to talk to me.

_Damn. He can be such a freaking _woman_ about some things! _I thought to myself.

_Hey, you're waiting on him,_ another voice in my head argued. _What does that make you?_

* * *

><p><em>Sam:<em>

I knew I was being irrational about the whole damn thing. No one needed to tell me that.

It was just… Dean's actions were far too intimate to sit well with me, considering I'd spent too damn long denying the fact that I _wanted_ that kind of intimacy with my brother. And then he does that, like he didn't even realize that brothers don't wipe warm, sticky substances off your chin with their thumb and then lick it off. Honest to God, in my mind, the instant he did that it stopped being syrup in my head, and that was a freaking _problem_. Getting a boner because of your brother's absent-minded action in the middle of breakfast… well, that was an awkwardness I hadn't had to deal with since we were still kids and it pissed me off that he could still accidently bring about the same response on accident.

_It would be so much more satisfying if he did it on purpose,_ the darker, hungrier part of me interrupted.

A loud clamor sounded in the kitchen, followed by a barrage of colorful swearing.

_Oh, fuck, did I just stick him with dishes?_

"It's okay," he called out. "Just a pan."

I felt like beating my head against a wall. _Fuuuck!_ I thought quietly to myself.

How, exactly, was I to go about telling my incredibly dense older brother that I wanted him so bad the _desire_ was making me insane?

Chuckling very softly, I realized Dean was so prideful that half of that would make total sense, but only if I got him to understand the other half.

I let out a heavy-hearted sigh. This was going to be one incredibly long Christmas.

Steeling myself mentally, I slid off the couch and headed for the kitchen. _Best make sure he doesn't break all the china._

It didn't have anything to do with the fact I wondered if he still did the dishes shirtless. Promise.

* * *

><p><em>The Ghost:<em>

I let out a silent sigh as the boys danced foolishly around each other in my kitchen.

It had amused me for a good long while, until I realized just how deep it went and just how miserable it made them. My Bobby would never say anything about it to them, but I could see it wearing at him as well.

They were going to tear themselves apart by pulling in completely opposite directions despite wanting the exact same thing.

No, the relationship wasn't traditional, and no, it wasn't particularly morally right. But since when did these boys ever qualify as even remotely normal?

So I, the Ghost of Christmas Past for this old house, was just going to have to provide the perfect Christmas present so that these boys would just freaking _give in already_ and see just how and how much the other loved them.

* * *

><p><em>Sam:<em>

Dean had easy handed over the reins of the dish-washing venture and had delegated himself to drying the dishes.

That didn't mean he put his shirt back on. And I couldn't ask him to put it back on without revealing why it bothered me, so off it stayed.

Five minutes into the dishes, I remembered why he usually removed his shirt: the front of mine was wet and clinging damply to my stomach and chest. In frustration, I drug it over my head and tossed it at one of the kitchen chairs. Dean let out a startled noise as it hit its target before looking over at me.

What a sight we much have been: two barefoot, shirtless men with matching tattoos on their left pectorals and faded blue jeans hanging on to slightly jutting hipbones, staring at each other in somewhat awkward silence.

I could have leaning in, brushed my lips across his, and returned to my work. But, considering the thrashing I figured would accompany the second step of that notion, I simply held his gaze for a moment before returning back to work.

The damn dishes were almost done, anyway. Then I could retreat up to my room and devour one of the presents. A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth as I recalled. Dean had lovingly given me these presents. It warmed my heart to know he loved me in at least one way, but broke my heart to know he would never understand how I'd managed to fall deeply in love with him.

_Can't win them all,_ I thought to myself as I rinsed the last dish, placed it in the dish-rack and picked up a towel to help him dry. _I must choose my battles with care._

* * *

><p><em>Dean:<em>

He'd been very quiet since he had come back into the kitchen.

I'd about passed out when I realized he'd taken off his shirt to finish the dishes. As I had gazed at the tattoo on his chest, I had to push back the urge to pin him against the counter and trace the lines and shapes with my tongue until he was gasping for air. But big brothers don't do that, so we had a little staring contest before he simply returned to work.

He got a little playful when he helped me dry dishes, even going as far as to twist the towel and hit my shoulder with it. Unfortunately, he then considered things such an action might bring back to my mind, and he never repeated the action again, which was such a freaking pity I could _cry_.

I wanted my playful, adorable brother that always did things that reminded me why I wasn't to act like a panther and pounce on him. Instead, I got a stoic replica who did semi-provocative things that would always been more provocative in my eyes and made it hard to understand exactly _why_ I needed to restrain myself.

Unfortunately, we were both left alone to our thoughts as we completed our task and wandered through the doorway to the Bobby's study.

Don't ask me why either of us glanced up: I have no freakin' idea why, but we did.

Sammy gasped a little, and I glanced up as well.

There, above the doorway we were about to pass through, was mistletoe.

Being as Sammy was absolutely stunned by it's presence, I had to assume he hadn't hung it.

That meant only one person –or former person– could have done the deed.

_Damn trixie ghosts!_

* * *

><p><em>Sam:<em>

I didn't hang the mistletoe.

I had no freaking clue how it got there, since Dean absolutely _abhorred_ the tradition of it –that might have been because of how many girls drug him under it for 'just one little kiss' and finally let him emerge and hour later with kiss-swollen lips that made me jealous as hell.

"Mrs. Singer!" Dean bellowed, angry. "Come on! Really? Are you _really_ making us do this?"

A girlish giggle drifted out to us on a cold draft. "Why yes I am. Deal with it, Dean-y."

"Wait. You knew she was here and you didn't tell me?" I demanded, looking at my brother.

"She's freakin' harmless, Sammy! You were asleep last time I noticed she was here, and I didn't see a need to wake you!"

"Fighting's not going to get you two out from under the mistletoe, my dears," the apparition called out cheerily.

"Your judgment call sucks," I grumbled.

"Yeah, well, I didn't predict she'd want to force us to kiss. Sorry." He growled back.

"Oh, kiss and make up, boys," she purred out, and then giggled. "And no little chaste ones, either."

"I amend that. I didn't predict she'd want to force us to French kiss. I do apologize." Dean rolled his eyes.

"Oh, just shut up. We best get it over with," I growled back. Part of me tingled in anticipation, wondering if his lips were as soft as I imagined, if his taste was as sweet as I thought it would be. Another part of me withered in the dread of him figuring out how bad I wanted this little taste of him.

_Fuck it. This is a battle I intend to win._

So I leaning in, angling slightly so that the kiss wouldn't be as awkward as it could be, and pressed my lips to his, my eyes wide and glued onto his green ones, so close I could see the little amber flecks that made them interesting. And I waited.

* * *

><p><em>Dean:<em>

My little brother was kissing me.

For a moment, I had to mentally pinch myself and make sure I wasn't dreaming this whole mess.

But no: my nose bumped lightly against the side of his, his lips still just gently pressed to mine, his breath warming the skin it brushed against.

So I traced the seam of his lips gently, hesitantly. After all, this was my brother: the one person I had wanted for almost all of my life. After what felt like torturous hours, his lips opened to me and my tongue slid in to touch, caress, and memorize: it wasn't likely that I'd ever get a second invitation.

He left out a soft sound and met my questing tongue with this own, coaxing it into a languid, luxurious dance, then chasing it back into my mouth, his hands sliding up to cup my face and hold it to his.

I let one of my hands glide into the hair at the base of his neck, then fist in the silky strands, grounding me to the reality of my brother's touch, my brother's taste, my brother's response.

I heard myself make a soft sound of appreciation and I felt his lips quirk against my mouth before he drew back enough to nip at my lower lip as his hands slid down my neck.

_Holy fucking damn! Sammy?_

He thrust his tongue deep into my mouth as he raked his nails down my back and conjured my shiver.

And then he pulled back.

"That meet your qualifications, Mrs. Singer?" he asked, his voice slightly husky.

A girly giggle was all he ever got in reply.

"Good," he murmured.

Then my brother pulled me to the nearest wall and pinned me there between his strong arms, his leg insinuating itself between mine. "Want to tell me about those 'serious happy noises' you were making, Dean?" he purred, a cat-that-ate-the-canary smile spread across his lips.

_Oh, fuck me._

* * *

><p><em>Sam:<em>

I watched the wheels turn in his head as he tried to come up with a viable lie.

Mentally, I rolled my eyes. Honestly, Dean was one of the densest people on the planet, right after me, and that was saying something!

I leaned into him and nibbled on his neck, tasting the skin over his pulse and the moan that ripped through his throat. Then I traced the curve of his ear with my tongue before pausing. "It sounded like you _wanted_ me. But if you _don't_," I purred, "I could just leave."

I withdrew, watching his mind work in his lust-clouded eyes, waiting for the fog to clear long enough for him to register my offer.

Like magic, one of his hands clenched in my hair and the other slid down my neck and drug my lips back to his.

Ah, it seemed my brother _did_ know what he wanted, after all.

It took us so many years to figure each other out, each thinking that we knew all there was about the other every damn day along the way until we somehow talked ourselves into a hopeless corner where we were horribly, morally wrong and unable to bring ourselves love anyone but that one person we never thought could love us back and unable to bring ourselves to admit that we loved them. But all it took was a Christmas present from a Ghost of Christmas Past for us to realize that we lied to ourselves for all of those years, convinced that we were undesirable, unlovable, and untouchable and most especially to that person we couldn't help but love, when really that person was in the same damn boat we were.

So what was I to do when my brother grabbed me and kissed me like he meant it, like he had a quantity of love that was bubbling out of its hidden reservoir, but kiss him back like learning his taste was more important than taking my next breath?

I lapped at the edge of his lips, playing gently and teasing his tongue into a velvet tango of sensation and delicious, lush wetness and taste. Gradually, Dean attempted to dominate the situation but I wasn't going to let that happen: I'd just taken all of the risk just to give him enough confidence in _my_ feelings for him to make him feel safe enough to react to me. I'd been yearning for this since I'd hit puberty: there was no way in hell I was going to let him control it.

I unpinned him slowly, but we weren't letting that put any distance between us: as I stepped back, he followed, a magnet drawn to the field of the opposite polarity. The fit was immaculate and perfect, like the ring that fit tight to Dean's finger, the one he never removed. My lips were made to be pressed against his, my tongue to know his taste, my hands to touch his hair, my lungs to breathe his air: he was my world, when it had begun and where it had ended several times, yet would end again. When he died, I'd follow him directly into whatever eternity awaited us, but for now, I wanted desperately to claim him for the brief eternity that he would be mine.

It was slow-going, but I led him up the stairs, motivating him with teasing kisses and touches, conning him into bringing his own weight up the stairs and to the bedroom I'd called my own for our stay. The bed was the largest, since I was taller, and now, it would be our little warm cocoon away from the world. I tugged him into the room as we tenderly touched each other and kissed as the world around us fell away from view. Sighing happily, I smoothed my hands down his strong arms, feeling the tensing of the muscles as my touch passed over. His gaze shifted up to mine, his lips still pressed warmly against mine and his tongue still playing its lazy games, almost as if he expected me to know what to do next.

Drawing back, I pressed a series of light, teasing kisses on Dean's lips before I gave him a playful shove that landed him in the middle of my bed. I could feel a shift in the mood as it stopped being all about the fact that I was teasing the hell out of Dean and it became more about the fact I wanted to _claim_ my brother, to caress and taste and lap the sweat off each inch of his flesh, to leave purpling love-bites on the visible skin of his neck, to throw back my head and _roar_ my dominance over him.

And Dean? Besides looking down-right _delicious_ in a clumsy sprawl across my bed, he was egging me on with those laughing, lustful, heavy-lidded eyes and the quiver of his muscles beneath his smooth skin. A positively predatory smile crossed my lips and I leaned forward, popping the button of my brother's tight jeans with ease. Pulling them down his legs slowly, I peppered the newly exposed skin with tender kisses and sharp nips, until he was reduced to writhing on the red bed-spread, needy noises tearing out of his throat and bringing a sweet blush to his cheeks that I counted myself privileged to see. What stunned me, however, was the absolute lack of any other barrier –I knew for a fact that my brother was a boxers man. I met his gaze with a question in my eyes, but his cheeks darkened and he looked away from me.

Leaning in, I caught his jaw in my hand gently. "Hey. Dean. Look at me," I commanded softly, lightly stroking his jaw with my thumb.

He turned his face into the contact, but avoided my eyes until his curiosity got the better of him.

I dropped kisses like raindrops on his up-turned face before retreating by his ear, only to find myself whispering, "Love you."

It took a moment to register on his face and I hid mine as it did, taking the time to trace the tattoo on his chest with my tongue before swirling my tongue around his nipple. I gave it a harsh suck, then nibbled on the flesh before giving it another suck and pulling a moan forth from his chest. The treatment was shortly repeated on its mate until I drew out a matching moan. I grinned like the Cheshire Cat before bestowing kisses and nips and all-out worship all the way down to his belly, giving his belly-button special attention until he gave me another sweet sound. Skipping the ground in between, I started at his knee: turning it gently out and spreading his legs a bit wider before pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to the tender inner side, continuing all the way up his thigh, then returning to make the trip anew on the other leg.

Finally, I turned my attention to the part of his that begged for all of my attention. Pursing my lips, I blew cold air on his sensitive cock that stood ready at attention, like the good little soldier Dean had been accused of being. A shudder rode through his body, so I gave his a little more: light, almost tentative licks, like a child with their first lollipop and no notion of how to treat it. Hips jerking toward me, he let out a light growl that seemed to demand I stop teasing him. I smirked, then pulled in as much of his cock into my mouth as I could at the first go.

A strangled noise of pleasure ripped out of the back of his throat and I hollowed my cheeks to give a good suck at the modest portion I had in my mouth. Instantly, I was rewarded with a cry. Wanting more of the noises that were probably going to make me come before he ever got anywhere near my cock, I started of a rhythm of up and down, throwing in hints of teeth and hard sucks and little noises of my own when his cock hit the back of my throat. Dean did not disappoint, and neither did his stamina: despite all of the teasing and attention and friction, Dean was still eager and hungry and not yet to that critical point. Now, that probably said something about my tendency to tease like crazy, but this was the first time, anyway, so what did it matter?

I pulled off of his length with a _pop_ of suction and he whimpered slightly before he smothered it out of pride. I looked up at him, meeting his pleasure-blown gaze and seeing how freaking _huge_ his pupils had grown: the black swallowed up most of the beautiful green, now a dark forest. My hand moved back to play his balls between my fingers and my palm, earning me another beautiful sound before I took him back into my mouth, scrapping my teeth against him all the way down as he released a pleasured hiss.

"Sammy," he rasped out. "God, what are you _doing _to me?"

I chuckled and the vibrations rode right up his cock, earning me another pretty sound. _One more sound like that and I'm going to come in my pants,_ I thought. I pulled off again, the _pop_ a dirty sound to my ears, but I watch the color rise higher in his cheeks and he watched me. "I'm loving you, Dean," I told him, my tone husky and honest. "And I hope to God I'll drive you crazy before I'm done."

Instead of returning my mouth to his cock, I thought I'd try a slightly different tactic: I wrapped my hand around his girth and worked him with the same motion, his hips lifting to meet each stroke and his feet fighting at the bed for some type of purchase. Allowing his hips to maintain that new angle, I placed a pillow under the small of his back, which lifted his ass a bit so I could see and touch. Taking a deep breath, I gave a light lick to the pretty pucker that had been hidden from me and he moaned out like some sort of wonton whore. I licked again, firmer, less hesitant.

"Fuck!" he exclaimed.

I swirled my tongue around the puckered flesh, dampening it with my saliva and then playing at it with the tip of my tongue, pushing against the pressure lightly, then a little more firmly. I lathed the flesh in my own saliva, kissing the tiny pucker and easing one finger into him slowly. His drawn-out groan was like music to my ears. I eased it in and out a few time, still jerking his cock with my other hand. Crooking the finger that was inside of him just right, I found his prostate and received what was almost a shuddery scream, a sound so delightful it took me right to the edge. I had to bring forth the most unattractive images I could imagine to calm myself down a bit, but I wasn't about to let him calm down.

I worked a second finger into him as I pressed a light, chaste kiss to the tip of his cock. He rolled his hips, groaning, trying to get more contact, more friction, just _more_. A smirk pulled across my lips and I took the leaking head into my mouth, sucking gently, lightly, teasing. He bucked his hips, trying to get deeper, trying to get _more,_ but I pushed his hips back down to the bed, chuckling and continuing my teasing. I found his prostate again, stabbing into it with both fingers as I gave a hard suck.

"Sammy! Oh… _fuck_!" he moaned out, his head thrashing against the bed.

I kept sucking at his tip and rubbing my fingers against the sensitive nerves and he continued to thrash and buck. At the pleading, keening noise he released, I gave in and began to pump the rest of his length with my free hand, my mouth still wrapped about the still-leaking tip. The noise that snuck past his lips was _indescribable_, housing eagerness and hunger, desire and relief, satisfaction but continuing need. It was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard and I sucked hard to reward it.

He came with a gasp that sounded suspiciously like my name, his head thrashing against the bed, his back arcing, his essence filling my mouth with a bittersweet and salty taste. I tried not to think about it, just swallowing as it filled my mouth and trying not to let myself drown in it. It tasted musky and salty and sweet and bitter, but best of all, it tasted like Dean, and he looked surprisingly aroused by the fact I was swallowing it.

I released him when it was over, when the last tremors of his orgasm were running through his body and the muscles clenched tightly against the fingers I had yet to withdraw. My fingers were still buried deep enough to simply _rub_ at his prostate until pretty little mewls pushed past plump, pink, perfect lips that were bruised from rough kisses and his own teeth as he tried to restrain himself. Then I withdrew my fingers, since this exercise had been about teaching him the pleasure that came with this act, _not_ about fucking him open for me to fuck him.

"What about you?" Dean drawled lazily, bringing my attention back to my own pressing _problem_ in my jeans by turning his leg and rubbing his knee against it teasingly.

I moved up his body, stretching my own body out over his, to kiss his lips lightly, but didn't make a sound. I wanted to see what _Dean_ wanted to do about it.

He kissed me back lazily, still basking in the afterglow. It was like he slowly became aware that he wasn't touching me because his hands were suddenly everywhere: first cradling the back of my head and holding my lips to his, then stroking down my neck and my bare chest, finally back up my back, drawing pictures with his nails and making me arch into his touch. He rolled me under him then, smirking down at me like he knew exactly what to do to me to turn me into putty in his hands –and he probably did, being that he _did_ pretty much know me inside and out, and with my luck, I probably talked in my sleep.

"What do you want me to do to you, Sammy?" he purred out, dripping his head so he could ask such a distracting question directly in my ear.

I shivered at the childish nickname that had stuck with me through puberty and to adulthood. What we were doing was pretty much the opposite of childish, but hearing him say my name like that warmed something in my blood to a fever pitch.

"What do _you_ want to do to me, Dean?" I purred back sensually as he drew back to look at me.

The sexy smirk that curved his lips could have undone a lesser man. He kissed and nipped and lapped at my neck, tracing and teasing and tasting me until he found a particular sensitive part where my shoulder sloped up into my neck. His hands strayed down my body to fumble with the button-fly jeans I wore, but his mouth stayed right there, tasting and teasing a cursing each time he fumbled with a button. I bit down on my lower lip to smother the sounds that wished to jump out of my mouth with alarming frequency. When all six buttons were undone and his hand slid into my boxers to touch me, I moaned out his name at a somewhat embarrassing volume.

He chuckled and wrapped his hand around me, finding an impatient pace. "Oh, c'mon, Sammy," he purred darkly. "Why don't you scream for me? Why must you abuse that pretty lip with your teeth, baby brother?"

Oh, God, him calling me that was so _wrong_ right now, but holy hell, it turned me on!

"Why don't you make me?" I ground out, refusing to open my mouth very far for the fear that I would allow a mewl past my lips.

He laughed at that, the sound dark and tantalizing. "Oh, believe me, I will."

His grip tightened around me and I couldn't help but gasp, arching up and meeting the motion of his hand with my hips. He trailed kisses down my sternum, nipping at the bone, then moving to taste my nipples and the tattoo that mirrored his own. He increased his pace, rubbing his thumb forcefully across my tip until I moaned out his name again. I felt his lips quirk into a smirk before he kissed his way back up to that sensitive spot on my neck.

When he bit it hard enough to draw blood, sparks flooded my vision. My hips snapped upward, my mouth opened and a weak cry fell from my lips, but he would not relent. Instead, he kissed up to my ear and drew the lobe into his mouth, nibbling on the flesh and purring seductive words in my ear.

Then he kissed his way back down my torso again, pausing to lathe his tongue against a few of the more abused portions. Slowly, he eased my remaining clothes down my legs, stopping at my knees so his hand could hold my bucking hips in place. He kissed my ribs, nibbled on my jutting hipbones, and kissed the inside of each of my thighs, slowly easing them apart. That had to be why I was totally not expecting it when he bit down on the tender skin of my inner thigh.

Although I would never have expected it to end this way, I let out a surprising loud shriek and came –hard.

As I panted, I heard that sexy chuckle and watched him move from between my legs. I knew I should have felt bad about the copious amounts of come splattered on his cheek, but I'd be damned if he didn't look sexy as hell that way. Still breathless with my release, I pulled his face up to mine and licked all the semen off his check tenderly.

"Share," he demanded, taking my lips hungrily once more. I relented, letting him taste me off my tongue as I kissed him back lazily. His groan at the taste of it, however, sent heat back down toward the recently relieved ache between my legs. I ignored it, kissing my lover back despite the boneless feeling still in my bones. I drew back and smirked at him.

"What?" he asked.

"Did you like your Christmas present?" I asked, barely choking back my chuckle.

He shook his head, and I heard a girl little giggle echo through the house.

I'd be damned if I ever admitted it, but I was grateful for the Christmas present from a wayward little Ghost of Christmas Past.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Yes, the ending was lame :P <strong>_

_**Sam and Dean were not harmed in the production of this fanfiction :P**_

_**I hoped you liked it. I enjoy it, except for like one part, but I'll probably fix it later :P**_

_**REVIEW and let me know how you like it (fast, hard, rough, sweet, slow *cough* sorry. Perverted brain)  
><strong>_


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